Back in the Day...
Flight of the Eagles
Mark Bailey in the Wellington HGPGC Newsletter in 2003 Crowned Eagle Photo; Derek Keats
I
turn gently in a smooth thermal, almost a kilometre above Africa’s Zambezi Valley. Relaxed and settled back into my harness, the view is spectacular! Beneath a crystal blue sky the ragged escarpment runs eastward from Lake Kariba to Mozambique.
African villages are scattered across the valley floor. Small clusters of mud huts surrounded by mealie fields, hidden amongst the untouched bush of the lowveld. A culture as seemingly untouched as the flat valley floor itself. The peaceful chirping of my vario is joined by a squawk. Glancing up from the view a Crowned Eagle greets me. He cruises in from the front, level with my wing, swoops around my left wingtip, and straight
Photo; Mark Bailey
12 A i r b o r n
into my wake. I laugh as he tumbles, chirping in surprise. Recovering, he glides around me, craning his neck almost to the point of dislocation as he inspects my glider. There’s no sign of aggression, no hostility, just a natural curiosity. I keep leaned over in my harness letting the glider fly itself, giving all my attention to the eagle. He is huge, almost 2 meters across, his eyes sparkling as he checks me out. Although his talons are tucked up, I can’t help but imagine the damage they would do to my glider should he put his mind to it. His interest is directed to my glider, a bright blue SKY LIFT, with a splash of fluorescent green. Swinging in, he makes a mock attack on my wing, swooping up barely a meter from the leading edge. Rolling away, he comes around again, squawking and playing, and joins into my thermal, sitting just off my left wingtip. It’s a moment only dreamed of: Playing in the skies over Africa with a large bird of prey, accepted by natures best pilot. Unable to contain myself, I start whistling my happy thermal song. Instead of being insulted by my lack of musical ability, I am rewarded by the occasional chirping and squawking. A dreamtime later the eagle cranks a left turn, as I continue thermalling right. Coming around again to face him I find that his attention has shifted. He swoops in aiming straight for me. The approach speed must be in the region of 70km/hrs. Suddenly realising his miscalculation, the eagle pulls up from his dive in a poorly coordinated wing over, no more than a meter and
a half away from hitting me. Flinching and laughing, I realise that even the experts can balls it up! Disappearing over my wing, I assume that he has moved on. I drag my attention back to my thermal; only to have it diverted again minutes later by a movement above
my right leading edge. Looking up I swear that I see him doing a barrel roll over my leading edge before diving away. A barrel roll? Can they do that? Maybe an illusion, but the memory of this flight will join my internal logbook of paragliding nirvanas.
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